


Ho Ho Hoe

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas in the Bunker, Coda, Darkness and Despair, Episode: s05e04 The End, Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Indiana Jones is the king of everything, M/M, Mistletoe, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Post-Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, Sherlock - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, The Lord of the Rings References, Unapologetic References, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, and also, the Shining - Freeform, two stories in one, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:06:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, are you two doing it, yet?”</p><p>Dean tries to take a step back, but there’s nowhere he can go. His heart beating very fast, he remains still as the guy keeps stepping forward until there’s no distance between them, until he’s close enough Dean can smell his breath - bitter almonds and coffee - and see Cas’ blue eyes, alive with excitement, look up into his.</p><p>“Or do I get to be your first,” the guy asks, silkily, leaning in even closer, “again?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (either or)

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M because of general misery (Sam’s) and some sort of suicide attempt (Dean’s). But: happy ending.
> 
> So, this half season finale left me with all the feels; and, to make matters worse, I stumbled upon Akuta’s wonderful drawing and couldn’t put it down. It’s truly beautiful - colours and feelings and something else. In the unlikely case you haven't seen it before, here it is:
> 
> http://akuta02.tumblr.com/image/38153679239
> 
> Anyway, it got me wondering what would happen in a reverse Apocalypse episode - Dean could handle a second version of himself (barely) but how would he deal with a second version of Cas (a second version of Cas which _really_ wants to bed him)? 
> 
> I wanted this to be a fluffy Christmas thing, but, well, _Supernatural_ , am I right?, which means this is the result instead. If you're staying away from negative things and/or are sensitive to suicidal characters, skip chapter two and go straight to chapter three; however, for plot-related reasons, I invite you to read the whole thing and hope you'll enjoy it. 
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! :)

_You're gone, gone, gone away_  
I watched you disappear  
All that's left is the ghost of you.  
Now we're torn, torn, torn apart,  
There's nothing we can do  
Just let me go we'll meet again soon  
Now wait, wait, wait for me  
Please hang around  
I'll see you when I fall asleep. 

Of Monsters and Men

 

 

“Upper bunk? Lower bunk?” asks Lucifer, and Sam tries, very hard, to control his breathing so he won’t hyperventilate and pass out; tries so hard not to breathe too fast that he ends up not breathing at all.

“Or do you want to share?” 

The question goes right through him like a blade, because, of course, Sam remembers what it was like to _share_ with Lucifer. He remembers Lucifer inside his mind, chopping away at his grasp on reality one thread at a time; and he remembers Lucifer doing - _things_ \- to his body - he remembers that first hug, back when he’d pretended to be Jess and Sam had melted into it - and that one moment, somehow, still hurts Sam, hurts him more deeply than anything that happened in the Cage. And he remembers when Lucifer was everything and he himself was nothing - the second he’d said yes it had been - everything had both vanished and become sharper at the same time. Sam couldn’t really explain it, or put it into words properly, but he’d tried to hold on to the feeling for academic purposes. He’d tried telling Dean once the visions had started and their meaning had become clear, but Dean hadn’t wanted to hear about it, so Sam had written it down instead, thinking (foolishly, as he’d come to learn) that this - what happens when an archangel breathes himself inside your body - could be of use to future Men of Letters. In fact, he’d filled a whole notebook, stopping now and then to close his eyes and focus on what it had been like (stopping, at other times, to drop to his knees beside his bed and lower his face to the sheets, both praying to this God who’d abandoned him and reminding himself of the real world - coarse cotton against his face, and that smell of musk and detergent and darkness, somehow - the inescapable curse of a room without windows). Because he’d disappeared from himself - there had been light, so bright and cold as to not even be light at all, and Sam couldn’t even explain how he’d _perceived_ the light - if it had been a matter of _seeing_ or _believing_ , somehow; and, at the same time, he’d been everything he’d ever been, all at once - he’d stumbled and fallen in playgrounds and schools and the back of the Impala and the front seat of the Impala and under the wide, sunny skies of Stanford. He’d felt sad and furious and scared and turned on and disgusted all at once, and also inconceivably, unspeakably happy and blessed, because as disgraced and cursed as Lucifer was, he was still an angel, and the word of God defined every part of him (and now, of Sam).

Sam had thought he’d been clever about it. He’d worked on the notebook mostly at night, and he’d done a neat, scientific job out of it, colour coding some pages, leaving space in the margins for future hunters to write stuff in. He’d thought Dean hadn’t noticed anything, because these days, Dean hardly did. He mostly read, which was a bit out of character, or he stared at Cas when Cas wasn’t looking, which wasn’t.

But then, the day before they’d met with Crowley, Dean had come into his room.

“Hey,” he’d said, dropping down on the bed uninvited, in that _Dad is going to read you a story now_ way other kids are familiar with.

There had been something in his eyes, though, a sort of weariness, and Sam had reacted to it on instinct, shuffling away from Dean, sitting up straighter against the headboard.

“I’m doing it, Dean,” he’d said, because this is what he’d assumed - that Dean had come to talk him out of meeting Crowley (of opening the Cage).

Dean had looked up, then back at him.

“I know you are,” he’d said. “And I told you, you’re not doing this without me.”

Sam hadn’t said anything, because he could almost smell the _But_ which came after.

Dean’s protest, though, had taken a long time to come out. Dean had been strange that night, almost maudlin. After a long silence, he’d started to talk about stuff from their childhood - about a school play Sam had forgotten all about, in which he’d apparently been a tree - Dean had spent weeks trying to piece a costume together, and then had shown up midway through the play, his jacket zipped shut because a possible werewolf who’d turned out to be a very real drug addict had put a kitchen knife right through his side, soaking his shirt with blood. Not a good look for a school play.

“Lucifer is bad for you,” Dean had said then, out of the blue, and Sam had been so shocked by the abrupt, obvious nature of the thing he’d almost laughed out loud.

“I know you’re bright, Sammy,” Dean had added, and now his mood had shifted beyond gray, to the black and blue of an old bruise, “but he’s much older. And much brighter. Morning Star, and all that shit.”

“Dean -”

Dean had opened the drawer of the bedside table, and then he’d turned his hand upside down, searching for the black notebook which Sam had taped to the top of the drawer; had ripped it free with a soft noise.

“I knew you’d go ahead and do your homework,” he’d said, and Sam had felt way more guilty than it was logical to, because working on that thing had been - absolutely - the rational thing to do. “Well, I kept an eye on it. On you. Because that’s what I do, apparently.”

Sam had dropped his eyes to the blanket, fighting the urge to take the notebook away from Dean.

“I wrote down everything I remember,” he’d said, quietly. “It won’t be like last time, Dean. We’ve faced him before, we’re -”

“Prepared?” Dean had suggested, and then Sam had heard him shuffle through the pages, had raised his eyes to him.

“Who holds the Devil, let him hold him well,” Dean had said, his eyes cast down, and at first Sam had thought, wildly, that Dean was just talking, because he knew he’d never written those words, knew - but then, barely a heartbeat later, he’d realized that Dean was reading, that - 

“Who holds the Devil, let him hold him well,” Dean had said again, turning a page, and then another. “Who holds the Devil, let him hold him well.”

He’d looked at Sam then, looking as pained and broken as he’d looked when he had been about to kill Sam, his knuckles white on Death’ scythe, and he’d left the notebook fall between them.

That sentence, Sam had known this before seeing it, was the only thing inside the notebook. Fifty pages, and that was all Sam had written, over and over, without any awareness of what he was doing.

“That’s from _Faust_ ,” he’d said, shell-shocked, unable to say the rest of it ( _I never knew - I never realized - we’re not ready. I’m not ready. If we go through with this, we’ll all die, but if we don’t -_ ), and Dean had shaken his head.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “And you know the rest of it?”

Sam hadn’t answered. He’d both wanted and not wanted to pick up the notebook. He’d worked on it for days - weeks, perhaps - he’d reread what he’d written, he’d -

It was unfair. He’d been so careful. So _good_.

“ _He hardly will be caught a second time_ ,” Dean had said; and then he’d moved closer, carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, the way he used to do when Sam was a child.

Was that the last thing they were ever going to say to each other? Sam wonders, as his own fingers close around the cold bars pressing against his back. If so, it hadn’t been a bad goodbye, all things considered. Sam knows how much Dean struggles to say these things, and he knows what that gesture meant ( _Please be careful. I love you. I can’t lose you._ ). He only wishes he’d said it back.

“You know you can’t resist me, Sam,” says Lucifer, softly, and Sam raises his eyes to look at him. “Why even try?”

The Cage almost destroyed Sam, but Lucifer looks the same, his hair a bit dishevelled, his eyes bright with amusement (also: fondness).

“I will _never_ be what you want me to be,” Sam forces out, and he tries to hide inside his own thoughts again - to think about Dean - Dean walking out of his room that night, Dean -

“All I want is for you to be yourself.”

\- picking him up after school, the way he always managed to look cool and grown-up and utterly bored with everything ( _God_ , had he really been only seventeen?), Dean -

“Out of everyone you ever loved in your life, Sam -”

\- stealing those fireworks while Sam (eleven) waited in the car, his heart almost jumping out of his chest in fear and excitement, Dean -

“- I am the only one who never lied to you. Even when I knew the truth would hurt you, I always spoke it. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

\- falling asleep completely dressed, drunk out of his mind, turning to Sam as Sam tried to take at least his shoes off, hugging him tightly, Dean -

“After all this time, I don’t even get a peck on the cheek, Sam? That’s cold.”

\- who needed him. 

“If you mean that, then tell me out to get out of here. You must know,” Sam says, closing his fingers tight on the bars, trying to ignore how close Lucifer is.

Lucifer stops moving, then, cocks his head to one side.

“There is a difference between honesty and stupidity, Sam,” he says, and _God_ , when will he _stop_ saying his name, because Sam can’t bear it, how his name sounds in Lucifer’s mouth, like something sweet and precious and unique; and then Lucifer raises one arm and _touches_ Sam - curls his fingers around Sam’s arm, traces Sam’s shirt with his thumb - and it all becomes too much, too loud, too -

“But as a gesture of goodwill, I am going to tell you.”

Lucifer’s fingers are ice cold. Sam can feel the touch on his skin (his soul).

“You either say yes,” Lucifer says, a bit shyly (contrived, and all wrong on his face), “or someone trades places with you. I would prefer your company, of course,” he adds, unnecessarily.

It’s stated very simply, and Sam knows it’s the truth. The best way out is always through ( _and I can see no way out but through_ ). Killing and dying are the bloody keys which open every door. He’s been hunting his whole life; he knows as much.

Unwilling and unable to look away, he keeps his eyes on Lucifer’s (guileless and friendly and a bit mischievous) as he contemplates the choice facing him. Because he will never say yes to this - this _thing_ in front of him, but Dean _will_ come, Dean _will_ find him, and Sam can’t - Sam won’t let him walk in here and take his place, even if Dean will want to. He won’t let his brother die for him, not this time. He’d rather -

There is no way to finish this sentence, and Lucifer seems to know it. His smile turns almost feral. He takes one step closer as he keeps looking at Sam, at everything he is and was and will ever be; at the truth of it all.


	2. (either)

The first time Sam tries, it’s fairly easy to put a stop to it.

“Dean -”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean says, raising his hand from the gear and making a sort of _Stop it now_ gesture.

They’ve had this conversation a thousand times. Well, not this one, precisely, because this one here is the end of the line, and if they ever talk about this, if they talk about it right now, Dean is not sure either of them will survive it; if whatever it is they have between them (family, love) will get to the other side in one piece. 

In fact, he’s pretty sure that it will burn; that it will be consumed and destroyed until only black ashes remain.

But Sam is the younger brother, always was, and Dean has trained him well.

So the first time Sam tries, Dean’s hand is enough to stop him, even if it’s just a hand; even if the steel in Dean’s voice is nowhere near as hard as John’s could be.

But the night is long and the world has ended and Dean never, ever catches a break. And so Sam tries again. He does it without even speaking at first - he glances at Dean, and his face - or what of it Dean can see in that secret, undefined space which is the corner of his eye, because sure as hell he’s not going to turn around and _look_ at Sam - because if he should look at Sam it’s plenty possible he’ll screech the car to a stop and throw him out and bloody _leave_ him there, so, well - Sam’s face is shifting from guilt to self-hatred to a dogged determination to just get it over with; to just keep on living.

Dean doesn’t need to look at Sam to read those expressions on him, anyway. He knows them well already. He’s lived with them his whole life, and all he’s ever wanted was to keep them from his kid brother’s face.

And, yeah, so he’s failed.

It’s not like he hasn’t failed before. 

(It’s not like he’s ever succeeded, in anything.)

But unlike Dean, Sam was never good at being ignored and forgotten about. He wants the thing out in the open, and so Dean feels the moment inching closer and closer, and he pushes his foot down on the gas, because, Goddammit, his brother is the only fucking thing he has left, and if he should lose Sam as well -

But, of course, it’s not an _if_. It’s a _when_.

And that moment is now.

“Dean,” Sam says, but Dean doesn’t even turn his way.

He just keeps driving. Somewhere ahead, dawn is breaking. Dean can almost see the new day crashing down on them (Christmas day, of all things) – the shadows of faraway trees appearing on the side of the road, and distant clouds tinging with pink – but he doesn’t care at all. They’re going home, and that’s all he knows. All he can deal with.

“Dean, we need to talk about this.”

Dean stretches out his hand, turns on the radio.

“- for reminding me, Annie. This one goes out to our young star-crossed lovers from Ohio, Emily and Jonas. Best of luck to you, guys.”

This is not what Dean wanted to hear; it is, in fact, the _last_ thing he wanted to hear. Star-crossed lovers. As if. Before he can decide if he has the energy to reach out and change the channel, though, _Nothing Else Matters_ ’ haunting guitar intro fills the car, and Dean shakes his head and keeps on driving, because Metallica always gets a pass.

It’s still ironic, though, that after searching for his brother for bloody weeks, now Sam is right here, unhurt and safe, Dean is not able to even look at him. Because, sure, he’d been angry at Sam before finding him – he’d been furious at the stupid bastard for not bloody _waiting_ for him, for going ahead and crashing headfirst in another deal with the fucking _Devil_ – but that anger had been buried under his desperate need to just _find_ Sam – and now he’s here – now that Cas –

Dean closes his eyes tight for half a second, focuses on the lyrics.

 _Life is ours, we live it our way_.

“I want to come with you,” Cas had said, when they’d finally worked out (Crowley had bloody disappeared) where Sam was; and Dean hadn’t questioned this – had just assumed that, as usual, Cas wanted to tag along, to – to watch over him, or some shit.

And even in the Cage, he hadn’t known. He’d seen the malicious spark of pleasure in Lucifer’s eyes when they’d both appeared inside the wards, but hadn’t guessed what it meant. He hadn’t been smart enough to, and what’s new?

But then Lucifer had said the words, had spoken them directly to him – he’d been standing so close to Dean, in fact, that Dean had bloody _smelled_ them (blood and honey and the clear water you crave when you’ve been driving in a hot car for hours), and then Dean had known.

“So, who drew the short straw?” Lucifer had asked, and Dean had looked at Cas, and in Cas’ serene, quiet expression he’d suddenly seen everything.

Everything has to be paid for. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing. For every life, a death. Because Lucifer, in his own twisted way, had been right from the start: demons are simple creatures. There is no lying. There is no treachery. In Hell, everything is clean symmetry. If two souls cross the wards, two souls come out. If Dean had come alone, Sam would have left in his place, because only one of them would have been allowed to leave and Dean would have made damn sure to push his brother to safety, whatever the cost (eternity with Lucifer).

But Dean had not come alone.

Dean had been stupid and blind. As usual.

For every life, a death.

Dean wouldn’t have been able to do it if he hadn’t seen, right there and then, the truth of it all on Cas’ plain, honest face. Cas had known all along. He’d insisted to come with Dean (despite his recent reticence to fight, despite those long moments he would spend in the kitchen, an empty mug in his hands as he stared at the tiled wall) for this very reason. He’d thought, perhaps, that he deserved to be in the Cage; or that Sam and Dean were the ones destined to stop the Darkness. That he himself didn’t matter.

Or perhaps there had been no thought at all, no reasoning, no scheming, because Cas was Cas and he would always, always lay down his life for Dean’s. Whatever the price (eternity with Lucifer).

In any case, it had been useless to argue. To beg and threaten. Before he even knew what was happening, he and Sam were back by the Impala, in the same stupid, unassuming place Dean had parked it in seemingly ten minutes (ten centuries) before: the empty parking lot of a bloody Walmart, its darkness bleeding with Christmas lights.

And Cas was – Cas -

“Dean, I –”

“Shut it, Sammy.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam look out of the window, then back at him again.

“We’ll get him back,” he says, after another long moment. “We’ll get him out.”

“Yeah? How?” Dean growls, getting embroiled in the argument despite himself.

“We’ll find a way.”

“Right.”

“Dean –”

“It’s too late,” Dean grates out, and then he turns up the volume of the radio, so that Sam has to almost shout his next words.

“We’ll get him out.”

“Sam, he’s –”

Dean finds he can’t put into words what Cas _is_ , exactly. He’s felt it happen for weeks – he’s sensed Cas – breaking from the inside out, sort of – ever since that spell has been taken off him. He’s tried to tell Sam a couple of times, but Sam had shrugged it off.

_We’re all messed up. We’re all broken._

But Cas had been _more_ than broken.

Dean had felt the ache first – something dull and deep inside his bones, like the memory of a long and icy winter. It had been days – days of hot showers and scalding coffee – before he’d realized this constant cold was not, in fact, his: it was Cas’. As to why Dean had sensed it (as to why Dean had sensed it when Sam had not), well.

The dreams had come next. Blood and gore and, sometimes, a kind of vague pearly whiteness, a nothingness which scared the shit out of Dean. It was appealing, but in a completely wrong way; in a _Don’t fucking touch it_ and _Don’t fucking go near it_ way.

But Dean hadn’t spoken to Cas until the visions had started.

The first time it had happened, Dean had been on his way back to his room after his morning shower – he’d turned a corner and he’d seen Cas – except it hadn’t been Cas –it was a bearded guy with a brown tunic – a complete stranger looking at him with Cas’ eyes – Dean had frozen where he was, and before he could even decide what the fuck he was supposed to do, the thing had flickered and vanished.

Dean had waited for Sam to fuck off – supplies, a waitress, the fucking fourteen stations of the Cross – before bringing it up with Cas.

“So I saw,” he’d started, a bit awkwardly, and Cas had closed his eyes.

“I know. I apologize,” he’d said, as if Dean had accused him of leaving his dirty plates in the sink.

“Uh –”

“That was what I looked like in fourth century Rome. I’m sorry it disturbed you.”

Dean had felt like someone had dropped an anvil on him.

“What – man, it didn’t _disturb_ me,” he’d lied. “It’s just, it was there, and then it was gone. What the _hell_?”

Cas had looked at him, then away.

“What I am now – what this vessel contains,” he’d offered, carefully and a bit warily, as if fully aware this was way too complicated for Dean to get, as if human words could not convey his thoughts in any case, “exists because I will it here. If I cease to do so, it – disperses.”

“Speak English, okay?” Dean had said, but even then, he’d known in his heart what Cas had been trying to say.

_This is my note. It’s what people do, don’t they?_

“I am everything at once, Dean. All I’ve ever been, all I will be, or might be, or should be – I am all of it. Angels do not live inside time. We do not grow and evolve. We simply are.”

“Yeah, figured that. No angel babies, after all,” Dean had forced out, and Cas had smiled.

“I am that I am,” he’d said, and it had sounded like a quote, but Dean had had no patience for it.

“So, what’s going on?”

“I am finding it – difficult – to maintain my control over the here and now.”

“Why?”

Cas hadn’t answered. He hadn’t needed to. Dean got it. Hell, he had trouble himself maintaining control over his own fucking here and now most of the time. And Cas was never built for this shit in the first place – for healing, for forgetting, for starting over. It was bound to be too much at some point.

“It’s not too late,” Sam says, and something in his voice makes clear it’s not the first time he’s said it.

Dean comes back to himself - the road is still unreal and endless in front of them, and the light is growing ever stronger. He clenches his jaw.

“It is. Let’s just – let’s just go to the Bunker, and –”

“Damn it, Dean! If you want to let him go, it’s _your_ choice. Don’t make it about _me_ ,” says Sam, turning the radio off, and it’s half plea, half threat, and all that anger that had been festering inside Dean suddenly boils over, because Sam doesn’t - and he could fucking _kill_ Sam right now, he could -

“You shut the fuck up,” Dean growls, but Sam doesn’t.

“I _mean_ it, Dean. I know that this thing with Crowley, with Lucifer - I know that’s on me, but the rest of it - I’m done feeling guilty, I’m done thinking -”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam laughs, an ugly, desperate sound.

“Right. As if you don’t know. As if you don’t - and it’s always -”

If Dean were more coherent, he’d be worried and wary about this - about Sam not managing to put his thoughts into words, about Sam not finishing his bloody sentences - but Dean knew this was coming, whatever this is, and he’s too tired to push against it any longer.

“I don’t know what the _fuck_ you’re talking about,” he says again, and he watches, in distracted fascination, as the first sliver of sunlight emerges from the hill in front of him, blindingly beautiful in the desolate and frozen landscape around them.

“ _Jesus_ , Dean,” says Sam, after a long pause, and Dean can almost taste it in his mouth - Sam’s sudden fear; his need to finally talk about this, and his unwillingness to do so.

“You gave up everything for me,” he adds, and there is such quiet venom in his voice that Dean has to close his hands tighter on the wheel not to reach for a weapon.

He doesn’t say anything, because that’s what he does, that’s his knee-jerk reaction, always has been: a stupid belief that all the bad stuff will go away if he refuses to look at it.

“You think I couldn’t _see_ it? When we were kids? I mean, I didn’t understand, not at first, but then - I know Dad hit you, Dean, and I know -”

How are words so powerful? How can those three letters ( _h-i-t_ ) conjure up a whole world of - Dean feels himself falling against the Impala, sliding down until the wheel rims press against his shoulder blades - can taste the blood in his mouth - can hear his father’s voice (‘Get up. We’re not done.’) - it doesn’t make any sense, really. Those memories were supposed to be gone. People have tried to prod and disturb them over the years - Bobby and Ellen and Charlie - but Dean is good at what he does, Dean had pushed them so deep in the dark he’d thought - he’d thought -

But this is different. This is his brother.

And if he can see that, what else can he see?

“Shut up. It’s not true.”

“Dean -”

“Sammy, I _mean_ it. Just - don’t.”

 _Please_ , Dean wants to add, but he’s way too angry.

“Half of those beatings were mine, Dean,” Sam drones on, ignoring him. “Or more than that. I was always the one to make him mad, after all. To make him go out and drink. To make him disappear for weeks. That’s on _me_.”

“You never made Dad _do_ anything. You were a _kid_.”

“So were _you_.”

“I could take it,” Dean says, because it’s true.

Sam makes some sort of movement, as if he wants to reach out and touch Dean, but then he seems to realize it’s a Very Bad Idea, all capitals. He sits up a bit straighter instead, puts his hands on his knees, palms down, fingers splayed (the way Dad liked it; the way he was taught to).

“Dean, we’re not kids anymore. You have to stop protecting me.”

Dean almost laughs at that; at Sam’s utter and complete lunacy.

“Right,” he scoffs. “So when you do stupid things like going after Lucifer on your bloody own, I’m just supposed to -”

“You didn’t _have_ to come after me,” Sam insists, and just like that, Dean is so much closer to - to - 

And he mustn’t. Sam can get as stupid as he wants, and Sam will always get away with it. Because it’s _Sam_. And Dean feeling the way he does - Dean feeling like he could _murder_ his own _brother,_ Dean thinking, without even realizing he’s doing it, that he’s got a gun in the back of his pants, and a knife in his right boot, and a shotgun on the backseat - Dean wishing there was something he could crash the car against, instead of this endless sweep of soft hills - all this proves is that _Dean_ is the one in the wrong here. The one who’s wanting and broken.

“Sorry I saved your life, then,” he forces out, and Sam closes his hands into fists.

“That’s not what I - Dean, you left Cas down there, and -”

“Yeah, you think I don’t know that?”

“- you didn’t do it to save me. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault,” Sam repeats, raising his voice over Dean’s noise of outrage.

“You fucking -”

“You left him behind because you think you don’t deserve him, because you think you don’t deserve anything, because -”

Sam is very nearly shouting again, and it’s getting so hard to breathe there may very well be no air left in the car at all.

“- because of what you _are_ ,” Sam says, and Dean brakes, and it’s a violent, messy thing - from seventy to zero in the space of a heartbeat - Baby’s wheels skid on the tarmac, and the car turns to one side, so that Sam is now bathed in soft, golden light, and all the sky Dean can see behind him is still dark and cloudy.

“And what is that,” Dean breathes, slowly, dangerously, as he looks at this thing which is his brother (now his features are glowing with light, he looks about twelve, and he also looks like the beautiful, precious creature Lucifer wants so badly).

“Not Dad,” says Sam, simply, and Dean looks down.

He’s not even angry anymore.

He’d thought -

He’s -

It’d be much _easier_ if -

“But you’re _wrong_ , Dean. You _do_ deserve -”

Dean shakes his head.

“He’s gone,” he says, even though Sam wasn’t talking about Cas, exactly; he was talking about so much more, and yet nothing is more than Cas.

“We don’t know that,” Sam replies, after a short pause.

Dean just shakes his head.

 _We do_ , he wants to say, but the words just won’t come.

“Look, I get it,” starts Sam again, and now this thing around them is definitely a new day, which is unfair, and Dean is so tired, so tired of the slight impatience in Sam’s voice, because, yeah, so he’s the smart one, fuck it, but there’s some things he still doesn’t see, things he’s never -

“No, you don’t - I saw things, I -”

The sentence dies out.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits, a bit reluctantly, after a short pause. “For weeks now.”

Dean thinks, uneasily, about those ghosts of Cas - of Cas and yet not Cas. Of Emmanuel in his neat clothes. Of the millennia old creature playing a board game in front of him, brow furrowed in concentration. Of a badly shaven man - a sarcastic, _done with this shit_ warrior who'd promised - who'd said -

No way he can share this with Sam, not the way that Cas had looked at him - not that look which was both the same and vastly different from how the real Cas looked at him - curiosity and love and some kind of - of _longing_ , almost.

So, instead, something even worse slips out.

“There was a child,” he says, and then he grips the wheel so tight his knuckles turn white.

“A child,” Sam echoes, and, somehow, the way he's saying it shows he's understood everything Dean has left out.

“I don’t know how, okay? If she was even - ours,” Dean grits out, remembering it all - seeing the child in his mind, the way she'd been running in the Bunker's corridors, her tiny naked feet making no sound on the concrete - the way Cas had caught her and turned her upside down in a fierce hug, making her howl with laughter. The way he'd looked up at Dean and smiled, his eyes wrinkling in the corners; the joy (the love) shining out of them like pure, blinding light.

“Dean -”

But there’s nothing left to say.

Before Sam can even start his sentence, Dean has opened the door, walked out of the car. He walks away from it all - his home, his brother - his feet sliding a bit on the frost dusting the road. 

“Dean?”

“I’m done,” he says, without turning around.

“Dean!”

It’s the fear in Sam’s voice which makes Dean realize he’s got his gun in his hand. He doesn’t remember how it got there, can’t piece together how he did this thing he’s done so many times before (reach out, take the revolver out of his pants, feel its familiar weight in the palm of his hand, cock it), but he still did it.

Dean hesitates for a split second, his eyes panicking here and there over the landscape slowly forming in front of him (a wave of soft hills slowly being uncovered by the pink light of dawn) before he turns around and takes it in - the shiny mass of the Impala on his left and - his brother, the steady centre of gravity and fear which holds the whole world together - 

“I’m done,” he repeats, more quietly, and Sam just stands there, as if afraid to move, as if fearing -

And Sam was always the smart one. Looks like he’s figured it out before Dean understood it himself. And he’s right, of course.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean says, and then he puts the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.

He knows what it’s like to die. He’s expecting black and pain and a deafening silence, and instead -

“You stupid _cunt_ ,” someone grunts, and Dean blinks his eyes open, finds himself down on all fours, feels the dull pain of his palms now scratched open.

Crowley is standing exactly where Dean was only a second before. He frowns down at Dean in exasperation, then he looks at his own hand, which is a ruined mess of blood and broken bone.

“This was my _cursing_ hand,” he complains, over Sam’s sputtered incredulity. “If it doesn’t heal properly, I’m keeping you accountable.”

It is, of course, an empty threat. Even as Dean begins to stand up, his legs wobbly and his heart in his mouth, the skin on Crowley’s hand is knitting itself together. When Sam finally takes a shaky step towards his brother, Crowley raises his newly repaired hand to stop him.

“I’m not in the mood to enjoy your drama, Moose,” he says, drily; then he turns around, looks straight at Dean. “Pull yourself together. We’ve got work to do.”

Dean shakes his head in shock and disbelief. He’d been ready to - he’s almost - he - 

This is all wrong and too much. _Unfair_.

He looks at Crowley, and finds he can’t bear to hold his stern gaze. He’d felt empty just a few seconds before; now guilt is washing over him like mud, heavy and dark. He looks down the pavement, at the slight shine of the discarded gun.

“No,” he says, feeling like a child. “I’m done. I’m out.”

Crowley’s voice becomes even more cultured, his vowels stretching out as it always happens when he’s very angry indeed.

“You owe me. You’re done when I say you’re done.”

Dean wipes his face with the back of his hand and finds it wet. He looks up at Crowley, then away.

“Amara won’t stop until she has everything,” Crowley says, after a long moment.

“She’s welcome to it,” says Dean, and he vaguely hears Sam start a sentence before Crowley’s fist connects with the side of his head, hard.

He falls back, and is grateful to feel himself lose consciousness - to feel the pain fade and be forgotten about.

“Don’t let me hear you say I never do anything for you. Oh, and Merry fucking Christmas,” he hears Crowley say, in that distant, unknowable country that is reality, and he knows the demon king is speaking to Sam; he never hears, however, what, if anything, Sam says in return.


	3. (or)

Dean is pureeing pumpkin in the Bunker’s kitchen when he sees Cas come in out of the corner of his eye. He wants to say hello, okay, he really does, but he still feels guilty about the previous, night, about -

(Cas’ lips on his. Cas’ hands on his hips. Cas. Just _Cas_.)

Anyway.

So he’d - so they’d - whatever. God, he’s thirty-six. He can be a fucking grown-up about this.

“Listen, man,” he says, without turning the food processor off; he turns towards Cas for a second, then checks the pumpkin again. “About -”

But then his brain catches up with his eyes and he whips around again, because what the fuck? What the actual _fuck_?

Cas is lounging around the kitchen, taking it in curiously. His hair is shaggy, he's unshaven, and he's wearing the most ridiculous -

“What the hell,” says Dean, picking up a knife, and then he crosses the room in two fast steps, forces Cas right up against the wall.

“I _know_ you,” he says, low and dangerous. “What are you doing here? How the _fuck_ are you here? Where is _Cas_?”

The thing - the creature who is Cas and yet not Cas - looks up at him with a wide grin.

“God, you never disappoint. I’ve _missed_ you, Dean. Things were way more exciting when you gave a fuck.”

“Answer me,” Dean growls, and he raises the knife to the creature’s throat, tightening his fingers - still slippery with pumpkin - around the handle.

“No idea, no idea, and, wait for it, no idea,” says the thing, his smile turning into something more like - God - is that _lust_?

Dean lets his arms fall and takes a hurried step back.

But he’s not blushing. Not at all. Dean Winchester is a fierce hunter and he defeated the fucking Devil (at least twice; sort of). Dean Winchester does _not_ blush.

“Are you really - _him_?” he asks instead, and the creature stretches unconcernedly (the Indian shirt he’s wearing reaches up, uncovering a pale strip of belly - Dean doesn’t look) before leaning back against the wall.

“I am Castiel, yes. And we did meet each other before. In 2014. Well, in my 2014,” he amends. “From what I see,” he adds, turning his eyes around the neat kitchen, on the counter groaning with food, “yours has been rather different.”

“Where is Cas?” asks Dean again, and then he gives up and takes another step back so he can turn the bloody food processor off, because the noise is really grating on his nerves.

He’s still looking at the man in his kitchen, though. 

(Because he’s unpredictable and dangerous and a drug addict. No other reason.)

But then the other Cas closes his eyes for a second, and Dean takes advantage of it to stare at him properly - and, God, it’s really him. It had floored him, even back then, how similar this guy is to Cas, and yet how they’re not the same person at all.

“He’s around,” says the guy after a second, and he opens his eyes again. “I can feel him.”

“Right,” says Dean, and he wants to go looking for Cas, his Cas, wants to make sure he’s okay, because this is insane (because he’s had these - these _visions_ before, but they were never so sharp, never something he could push against a wall, never something so real and present his whole body would react to them), but the problem is, he’s not leaving this douche in his kitchen, not when he’s cooking Christmas lunch. No fucking _way_.

_Cas_ , tries Dean, a bit tentatively and pathetic as hell. He never knows if Cas can hear him, because he can’t find it in his heart to form a real prayer unless he’s truly desperate; also, the Bunker is fucking weird and warded against everything and anything, so, well.

Well: everything and anything except manifestations of one's soul, and/or people who come from the future, apparently. A future which is now the past. And now his head hurts, and where is Sam now there’s nerdy stuff to be figured out? 

Dean checks his watch. It’s not like Sam to sleep in, but Dean really doesn’t want to wake him up. Not after the week he’s had.

“Sit,” he says, curtly, motioning to the chairs, and this guy who is Cas and yet not Cas moves towards them; and then, at the last moment, he sort of sits on the edge of the table instead, and this brings him way too close.

Dean stares at him, and the guy smiles back.

This job has gotten too fucking complicated, he thinks, turning on the food processor again. When he’d first started (aged six and a half, and isn’t that a good memory) anything that wasn’t human got the axe, end of discussion. And now they are all metrosexual or some bullshit; they talk to monsters in a considerate and caring way, and it takes forever to decide when to bring out the guns and when to throw a fucking baby shower.

But, well, it’s true that Dean doesn’t know what this thing is, and if it can be killed. If it _should_ be killed. The guy had claimed to be human back in that vision, but it had still known at once that Dean hadn’t been the real Dean.

“Just - stay there,” he says in the end, because he really wants to sort this out but he also has a pie to finish. He can kill a monster at any time, but this spelt flour and cinnamon crust will start to get mushy if Dean doesn’t finish the filling and pops it in the oven. 

“What year is this?” asks - well - Cas.

“2015,” says Dean, curtly.

“So the Apocalypse never happened?”

“Long story, but no,” he answers, and then turns the thing off again, checks the pumpkin for lumps, and turns around - it’s an uncomfortable thing to crack the eggs and pour cream and sugar in the bloody mixer while also keeping an eye on the pill popping, orgy loving psycho which is his angel’s future self, but, hey, when are things ever easy?

“And you live here?” asks Cas, approvingly. “Nice warding.”

He stands up, then, walks to the wall on Dean’s left, puts his hand on it.

“There’s words,” he says, smilingly, “between the tiles and the plaster. Sumerian, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dean never knew this, but the last thing he wants is to appear weak in his own digs, so he switches tack.

“I thought you didn’t have your powers anymore. That you were human.”

Whatever this Cas is, he’s still a soldier and a strategist, and he sees Dean’s offhand comment for what it was: an attempt to redress the balance between them. And, being a morally grey asshole, he’s not okay with it.

“Falling is - complicated,” he says, abandoning his study of the wall and moving closer to Dean instead. “So, are you two doing it, yet?”

Dean almost drops the bowl in shock. He tries to take a step back, but there’s nowhere he can go. His heart beating very fast, he remains still as the guy keeps stepping forward until there’s no distance between them, until he’s close enough Dean can smell his breath - bitter almonds and coffee - and see Cas’ blue eyes, alive with excitement, look up into his.

“Or do I get to be your first,” the guy asks, silkily, leaning in even closer, “again?”

“I -” starts Dean, and then closes his mouth as the guy reaches up, passes a finger on his cheek.

Before Dean can decide what the hell he wants to do - before he has to admit there is nothing, really, he _can_ do - Sam walks in.

“Sam fucking Winchester,” says fake Cas, without even turning around, and there is surprise and pleasure and joy in his voice.

He gets his fingers off Dean’s face (which should be a relief), considers them carefully - there is a smudge of pumpkin paste there - before popping them into his mouth and sucking the sugary goodness off. Dean’s stomach does a very weird thing inside his belly, and Cas smiles before turning around.

Dean’s eyes move up, past him and to his brother, who’s standing on the threshold, shock still. He still looks awful - an unshaven, miserable, pyjama-wearing lump of quiet sadness and guilt - but his eyebrows have almost disappeared into his hairline, and Dean feels himself blushing furiously.

“This is not - shut up,” he says, aggressively, even though Sam hasn’t said a single word; and Sam goes with it, looks at Cas instead, and he frowns.

“Hi, Sam. It’s been a long time,” says Cas.

Sam doesn’t move.

“Dean - who’s this? Where is Cas?”

“That’s what I said,” mumbles Dean, as if to redeem himself, and then he tries to plan some sort of explanation - about these visions he’s been having for weeks, and what they mean (well: not really - just some bullshit, because Dean has a feeling Cas wouldn’t want him to go into that); about everything else.

But just then, Cas stops moving.

“Whoa, _weird_ ,” he says, and he has literally _zero_ right to find anything weird, because, _hello_?

“Is that - _Lucifer_?” he adds, pointing at the empty space on Sam’s right.

“We don’t talk about that,” snaps Dean, but the damage is done: Sam’s face crumples as if his brother is trying not to cry, and then, to make matters even worse, he looks to his right and purses his lips because Lucifer is a bastard and, yes, he’s surely felt the need to add his own two cents to what was already a pretty messed up situation to start with.

“So you can’t see him?” asks Cas, curiously, turning to Dean (because, yeah, the guy is out of his mind in exactly the right way - high enough not to give a fuck, but not high enough to miss stuff. Dean knows the feeling). “Can Castiel? The real one, I mean?”

“Shut up,” says Dean again, because, really, _rude_.

Whatever else Cas is these days, he’s still a fucking angel of the Lord. And Dean has every right to be offended on his behalf. Deep bond, and stuff. It's not creepy at all. Or sweet.

As he can sort of sense Sam is about to turn around and flee the kitchen, he scrambles to the counter, finds a bowl of random stuff - potatoes and yams and Brussel sprouts - and starts forward hurriedly, almost slipping and cracking his head open on the table.

“Here,” he says, forcing the bowl in Sam’s overgrown hands. “You’re on peeling duty.”

“I’m not sure -” starts Sam, but Dean cuts him off.

“I said, you’re on peeling duty,” he adds, in his best big brother voice. “You,” he adds, pointing at not Cas, “and you,” this at the empty air around Sam, “fucking _behave_. It’s fucking _Christmas_.”

Once Sam is sitting down, his hair flopping down sadly as he starts to peel the yams, Dean picks up his sentence again, and sort of explains what he knows (what he’s willing to say) about Cas and those bits of Cas now walking around; which is to say, nothing much. 

Sam doesn’t object, though. Dean has this feeling controlling Lucifer is taking up too much of his energy for him to do anything else. Not something Dean can change. Trying to keep his anger in check, he turns back to the counter. The pie is in the oven; what he needs to do now is to get started on the turkey. 

When he gets it out of the fridge, Sam seems to get even more upset.

“What is _that_?” he asks, sounding unreasonably bewildered, and Dean frowns.

“A turkey,” he says, struggling to make some place on the counter for it.

“I can see that. I just meant - Dean, that’s at least eight pounds.”

“Ten,” says Dean, a bit sheepish and a bit proud.

“You _do_ know there’s only three of us, right? And that Cas doesn’t eat? You’re not eating either,” he snaps, angrily, at the empty chair in front of him, and Dean smiles, because it's not really Christmas until the Devil is put in his place, the arrogant bastard.

“Dude, it’s not Christmas without leftovers.”

“Well, I don’t feel like eating freaking turkey sandwiches for the next two _weeks_ , so -”

“Two weeks? You underestimate me. Not that, I need that,” he adds hurriedly, because fake Cas has taken advantage of the back and forth to sneak around him and get to the bottle of Port.

“Come on, one glass? Surely you’re not going to use _all_ of it, are you?”

“Bloody sit down and make yourself useful,” snaps Dean, and now he’s utterly fed up, because this Cas - not that he hadn’t appreciated his continued loyalty to Dean and his newfound enthusiasm for sex, but seeing him like that - without faith, without hope - and now the thing is right here, in their bloody kitchen, and -

Dean pushes him down in a chair (“Not there, Lucifer is sitting there!”) and then gets red-faced when Cas closes one hand over his - Dean had grabbed his shirt to justle him around - and passes his thumb, lightly, over Dean’s knuckles.

The strangled _Stop that_ never comes out, because Sam is bent over the sprouts and hasn’t noticed anything; and, if God is good and merciful, he never saw what happened last night, either, and Dean isn’t ready to - to -

“What do we call you?” he asks instead, aggressively, wrenching his hand away, and this fake, unnatural Cas looks up at him curiously. “I’m _not_ going to call you _Cas_ ,” Dean adds, as spitefully as he can.

“But I _am_ Cas. A potential version of him, anyway.”

Yeah, Dean doesn’t want to think about that. About Cas falling, about Cas hiding behind drugs and women and raw cynicism; and, mostly, he doesn’t want to think about the role he himself - or, rather, that other Dean - had played into allowing Cas to become like that. Sarcastic, broken, and probably (surely) miserable as fuck beneath all the snark.

“What do we call you,” he repeats, and this time it’s not even a question.

The guy thinks it over for a moment.

“You could call me _harder_ ,” he says, in the end. “Or _faster_.”

Dean frowns. He glances at Sam, who looks horribly embarrassed and is holding the peeler very, very carefully, as if this job he’s doing (peeling a bloody yam) could save or doom millions of people; but, then again, he was always quicker to cotton up. Dean needs to ask it, though, needs to start a sentence in his mind before realizing the truth of it, and when he does, he feels a mounting horror, and also - _also_ -

“That’s what my Dean used to call me, when he bothered to talk to me at all,” shrugs the creature, and then, seemingly oblivious of the way the brothers are looking at him, he reaches over and pops a Brussels sprout - a raw Brussels sprout - into his mouth. “This is good,” he says, chewing it noisily, and Dean explodes.

“I’m not - shut up - what do we fucking _call_ you?” he says, almost incoherent with rage and shame, and something about him seems to make the fallen angel realize that he is, in fact, fallen, and therefore mortal.

And so the creature sort of shifts back and swallows his sprout.

“Novak,” he offers, warily. “The name of my vessel was never widely known, and after I lost my powers Dean decided it was safer to hide the fact I ever had them in the first place.”

“Okay then, _Novak_ ,” says Sam, because it’s obvious to everyone that Dean can’t talk, not now, not, perhaps, ever again, “so - what are you doing here?”

“I don’t think I’m - _here_ , actually,” says Novak, and he stretches his palm looks down at it.

“You’re not,” says a new voice, and everyone whips around.

Cas, the real Cas, is standing on the threshold. Dean has never been happier to see him, and yet he sort of wishes he could have stayed in his room a while longer, because he’s still red as a beet ( _harder; faster_ ) and so not ready to discuss what happened between them last night; also, he doesn’t want this Novak guy butting in with his saucy remarks and leering smiles.

“You’re part of me,” adds Cas, and then he looks at Dean and sort of nods.

Dean nods back, but also shakes his head a little, trying to convey a _Not here, not now_ kind of thing, and since Cas is amazing, as he always is, he clearly understands; there’s also something else in his expression, though, a kind of resignation, and Dean can feel a knot of guilt mounting in his stomach.

“How come we can see him, then?” asks Sam, ever the geek, and Dean feels better now Cas, the _real_ Cas, is here, so he turns his back on them all and starts to get the plastic off his turkey.

“I don’t know,” he hears Cas say, and by now he knows him well enough to know that’s a lie.

Congratulating himself on guessing Cas’ wishes (on not telling Sam about what those reflections of him really mean) he reaches for the paper towels.

He’s still acutely aware of Cas’ presence behind him, though - because, forget his human side, it’s the rest of him, the _true_ him, to draw Dean in like bloody gravity; it’s the nerdy, awkward, oblivious angel Dean had chosen to kiss last night, and -

And he won’t think about it. He can’t.

“But surely - stop that - it’s _not_ happening,” snaps Sam, and Dean focuses very, very hard on this next part, the seasoning part, because this is something else he won’t think about - he won’t think about his brother being possessed by an archangel, fucking _again_ ; about Lucifer, the guy who almost kick-started the Apocalypse ( _Although, to be fair, that was you, Righteous Man_ , says a snide voice inside Dean’s head) and drove Sam fucking insane - the guy who’s now sitting at their kitchen table -

_Fucking Crowley_ , thinks Dean, but, well, it hadn’t been Crowley’s fault, not really.

_I called you_ , Sam had said, frantically, and the sight of him, pale and terrified and looking around ten - the sight of him trapped in a cage with Lucifer - had kicked the air right out of Dean’s lungs. Because, well, he _does_ remember it - the exact moment his phone had rung, and he’d looked down at his screen, and he’d seen Sam’s name flashing on it, and then - and then -

Amara’s presence is suddenly overwhelming. The brush Dean is holding slips from his hand, clatters to the floor. 

_I can’t be resisted_ , says her voice inside his mind, and Dean almost blacks out from the memory of it, from the terror and the humiliation he’d felt in that moment, from -

_You and I will be together. We will become one_ , says Amara again, and then suddenly Cas is there - Cas is holding him up, his arm warm and comforting around Dean’s waist, and Dean is not even coherent enough to care that Sam - and that guy Novak, and bloody Lucifer - are there with them, are seeing all this.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, but he still leans into Cas, just a little, trying to centre himself, to remember that - for some miracle - he made it out. 

That he’s safe. For now.

When he pushes Cas away and he looks down at the table, he catches Sam looking back at him, his face a mask of worry and disapproval (Dean has not told him about Amara, not yet - Sam has enough on his plate, after all) and frowns.

“Are you done with that yet?” he says, and Sam nods.

“Almost.”

“Good. It’s time for Indy, you know.”

“Dean -”

“Shut up,” says Dean, because, God, he knows Sam’s whiny voice, and he doesn’t need to hear it now. “You wanted a traditional Christmas - you’re getting one.”

Sam ducks his head, and, yeah, it was not kind of Dean to bring this up (Sam on his knees, shaking all over, his arms clutching at Dean so tightly it hurt, Sam almost sobbing, _I want, I want -_ ), but, well, too late now.

“You,” says Dean, snapping at Novak, “You’re human, right? So you know how DVDs work. We’re starting with _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ \- top shelf, last from the left.”

Novak - who still looks too much like Cas for Dean to be comfortable around him - nods demurely and stands up.

“I’ll give you a hand,” says Cas, openly wary, even hostile. “I wanted to move the couch in there, anyway, and I doubt you’re strong enough.”

“Weak is as weak does,” smiles Novak, almost too quietly for Dean to hear, and Cas shoos him out of the kitchen in front of him.

Dean watches them walk away, a bit anxiously, and then he bends down to pick up his brush, places it in the sink.

“How are you doing?” Sam asks, coming up behind him with a bowl of chopped-up vegetables, and, man, he’s tall - Dean tries not to think at Lucifer staring down at him with Sam’s eyes - because Sam may be well over six feet, but Lucifer had made it seem more like sixteen - Dean remembers a peculiar beauty and the quiet and a strong sense of threat coming off him in waves, and does his best to smile up at Sam, who is (for now) just Sam, his kid brother.

“I’m good,” he says, automatically, taking the bowl off Sam’s hands and then moving the seasoned and stuffed turkey into the roasting pan. “You?”

“It’s always weird to see you do this,” says Sam, ignoring the question.

“What stuff?”

“Cooking from scratch.”

“Someone has to,” says Dean, a bit self-consciously.

“No, it’s good. It’s just - I never even noticed you’d bought all this stuff,” says Sam, fond and amazed, checking the sink for discarded tools - the bowl of the food processor, the rolling pin Dean had used to roll out the pastry; the silicone brush still glistening with butter. 

“I’m getting too old to bake a pie using a beer bottle and a fork,” Dean replies, and now he’s really uncomfortable, defensive, even, because -

“I know Dad never thought much of it,” says Sam, quietly, because, fuck it, they’ve been together far too long and they can always follow each other’s thoughts, “but I’m grateful you took care of me. I loved your cooking, even as a child.”

“Yeah, well, your favourite dish as a child was mac and cheese topped with chocolate sprinkles, so that’s not really a compliment, Sammy,” says Dean, managing to sound bored even if his voice barely works.

Sam makes a noise which could be dissent or amusement, and he remains where he is, looming over Dean as Dean puts the finishing touches on the turkey and then checks on the pumpkin pie.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, after a moment, “that we shouldn’t care about what Dad wanted. Not anymore. If it makes you happy, you should do it.”

Dean is still staring at the oven glass door, and this is why his face is suddenly on fire, definitely. Because Sam is clearly still talking about the bloody turkey, about this huge Christmas feast Dean is preparing on his own, and not about that other thing - not about the way he and Cas look at each other, not about that comment Sam may very well have overheard (“Or do I get to be your first, again?”), not about those other things Sam has surely seen and heard over the years - and, worse, _understood_ , because Sam was always too smart for his own good (Dean reaching into the dirty water for Cas’ trench coat, Dean shifting uncomfortably in his chair when Cas had come out of the bathroom wearing it again, Dean generally acting like a twelve-year old girl whenever Cas is nearby).

“Go watch your movie,” Dean says, straightening up and passing a hand on the back of his head. “Now.”

Sam almost rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told.

And Dean is alone in the kitchen, which is just fine, because he has stuff to do and zero disturbing shit to think about. 

Like Lucifer, for instance. Dean is not thinking about Lucifer, not when he doesn’t know if the guy is here in the kitchen with him or not - how does it work? Does he have to follow Sam around or not? Crowley never explained it properly, and what else is new?

“Where are you?” Crowley had asked, low and urgent, and Dean hadn’t even understood at first, hadn’t connected the dots at all, because he’d been standing in a park staring down at the hot dog in his left hand, trying not to think about - 

“Dean, where are you?”

With some effort, Dean had given him his position, and only a second later, Crowley had appeared in front of him, and the frown on his face had sharpened reality again, because why the fuck did he look so worried, and what had happened, and where was -

“Drop that thing,” he’d said. “You need to come with me, right now.”

“What’s going on?” Dean had said, obeying him without even realizing he was doing it. “Where’s Sam? What about your mother?”

“My mother is under lock and key. As she should have been all along.”

Yeah, there was no mistaking that tone. Crowley had been angry, but also - afraid.

“Crowley -”

“Come on.”

“What the hell?” Dean had said, struggling to keep up as they’d left the park behind them (oblivious people and colourful strollers and two happy pigeons feasting on the discarded hot dog); as Crowley turned down this street and then that, finally ducking inside a run-down tattoo parlour.

“Crowley, what the _hell_?” Dean had said again, taking in the place, and Crowley had rolled his eyes at him.

“Yes, precisely.”

The tattoo artist, intent on his work, had glanced at Crowley and then away, and Crowley had continued to a small door marked _Private_ before getting a key from one of his many pockets and turning it in the lock.

When he’d opened it to reveal a cobwebby stairwell and stone walls lined with torches, Dean had not even been surprised. 

"Hurry up, love.”

They had walked side by side, their steps very loud in the empty place. Dean had asked about Sam one more time, and, after receiving no answer, he’d scoffed at the whole thing - at them having to bloody walk to wherever -

“I’m a _demon_ , not an _angel_ ,” Crowley had said, managing to sound offended. “I can move around, but I can’t carry you with me. Unless you’re interested in a deal?”

“Shut it.”

“You know, this refined language of yours is the very reason I -”

“Let’s try it one more time. What happened to my _brother_?” Dean had said, and this time he’d actually grabbed Crowley’s tailored jacket and pushed him against the wall, hard, even if he’d still had Amara’s taste in his mouth (a foul, rotting sweetness) and could barely keep it together.

Crowley had been kind enough, or feeling guilty enough, to allow Dean to pin him there and loom over him.

“Sam is fine,” he’d said. “For now. But maybe you’re right; maybe this is a good time as any to have a little chat about it.”

He’d looked at Dean pointedly until Dean had let him go, and then he’d dusted his stupid suit, checked the corridor around them.

“The wards failed,” he’d said, grimly. “Sam is inside the cage. Well, not _that_ cage. _A_ cage. With Lucifer.”

“Inside a cage. With Lucifer,” Dean had echoed, his knees almost giving way under him; but his father, whatever his faults, had taught him well, so he’d gotten angry instead of despondent. “What the hell - I _told_ you, specifically -”

“And I told _you_ this was a Devil’s bargain. My mother double-crossed us. I had no _idea_ this would happen. I did not _want_ this to happen,” he’d said, keeping his dark eyes into Dean’s, and Dean had squared his jaw.

“How do we get him out?”

“We don’t. We can’t open that thing without letting Lucifer go free.”

“Well, think of a way, because I swear to God, Crowley -”

“I know a way. But you guys won’t like it.”

“Is that pumpkin pie? It smells delicious.”

Dean looks up and sees - Cas. Only now Cas is wearing a hospital gown under his coat, and is looking at him in that sweet, absent way which means -

“Cas,” Dean calls, because he has to make sure, absolutely sure - and the next second, Cas is there - he’s rolled up his sleeves and lost his tie, but he’s sharp and normal and definitely all there.

“Oh,” he says, when the other Cas raises a hand in greetings.

“Yeah,” says Dean.

“You want me to -” asks Cas, making a vague gesture which could include healing or murder, but Dean shakes his head.

“What I want is for you to make this stop. To - get better,” he says, but Cas doesn’t answer. 

“You told me once you would have me either way,” says the other Cas, after a moment of silence. “So does it really matter?” 

And, yeah, Dean didn’t think it was possible for him to get _more_ uncomfortable - he'd thought that Novak discussing their (non existent) sex life in front of his kid brother had been it, the high point of a life well spent, but apparently not. Apparently the universe is a bitch and his _actual_ past with Cas is way more girly and sappy than any possible future they might or might not have had.

And then things get worse.

“Oh, I remember that moment. I hadn’t known you could be both hard and soft at the same time,” says Novak, coming into the kitchen and passing an arm around Cas’ waist. 

“He means soft on the inside, because I realized right then and there that you had forgiven me, and hard on the outside, because -”

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” says Dean loudly, interrupting the other Cas - he doesn’t need to hear the opinion of someone who carries loose honey in his breast pocket, Jesus _Christ_ \- but the guy doesn’t react, he just smiles at Dean as if he’s the most smile-worthy thing he’s ever seen, and Dean -

Dean blinks. The Bunker was weird to start with (hello double-head axe collection and warded dungeon and demon-tracking radar) but it is downright insane now that Dean has gone on a decorating spree, because his brother is being possessed by the King of All Things Evil, okay, and he’d asked for a proper Christmas, because they’d never really had one, and so what if he’d been delirious and out of his mind? Dean will fucking give him a proper Christmas if that is what Sam wants, because this is _Sammy_ , Goddamnit, and he deserves _everything_. And this is why it all looks so weird - there are baubles and lights everywhere and bloody mistletoe hanging over the kitchen’s door and even a very dubious silver wreath slithering around on the map table in the other room. And the kitchen now smells like turkey and pumpkin pie. And Indiana Jones’ theme music is blasting through the place (tatata tatataa / tatata tatataa ta ta). And this is their life and everything is completely, gloriously, merrily insane - Dean’s eyes move from one Cas to another - from the sweet guy in hospital whites to his Cas, looking way too human and way too unhappy, to the wild-eyed hippy now smirking at him.

_Ho ho hoe_ , Dean thinks, irrationally, and is seized by a mad desire to laugh, because, really, what the _fuck?_ , but the expression in Cas’ eyes sobers him right up.

“It’s Christmas,” Dean says, half a plea, half an exasperated complaint directed at the universe itself.

“Yeah, I noticed,” says Novak. “The mistletoe was a nice touch.”

Before Dean can strangle him or shoot himself - both options are becoming increasingly appealing as the day progresses - crazy Cas turns to look at the plant and then smiles at it in the same fond way he’d smiled at Dean earlier.

“Did you know mistletoe is a hemiparasitic plant?” he says, and Dean had actually forgotten this, how Cas used to speak when he was out of his mind - as if everything was incredibly important and it was his last chance to say it (which was probably the case). “It can survive on its own, but is mostly found growing on the trunk of other trees.”

“So, have you two kissed yet?” asks Novak, talking over the other Cas. “The damn thing is right _there_.”

Yes, Dean knows, thank you very much. He’s put it up himself only last night, and as he’d struggled with the nail Cas had walked up to him, and then - then -

His eyes move automatically to Cas’, and, God, the guy is blushing. So they’re going public, apparently. Well - not that these guys count, since they’re aspects of Cas’ personality, or something, but still - this is _way_ more public than Dean is ready for.

“I couldn’t believe it either,” says Novak, nodding sagely, “the first time Dean kissed me. I’d given up, you know. As had you, I’m sure,” he adds, squeezing Cas closer to him.

“Stop it,” says Cas quietly, looking down.

Dean hears, as if through fog, someone banging on the front door. He ignores it. His eyes are fixed on the two figures in front of him, keep shifting from one to the other.

“It was one week after Sam had said yes,” the guy goes on, and now he smiles the first real smile Dean has seen on his face since he’s been here. “It was sweet and violent and sheer perfection. It was - everything.”

Cas turns away abruptly and walks out of the room. Dean knows he should go after him, but he just can’t. What would he even say? So he stays there instead, and walks back to the counter to deal with the vegetables so he won’t have to deal with Novak (rolling his eyes so professionally he should probably do it at the Olympics) and the other Cas (now starting on something about druids).

“ _Crowley_ is here,” says Sam, darkly, poking his head in the kitchen’s door, and thank God for the interruption. “Dean, did you invite _Crowley_ over for Christmas?”

Dean wants to say no. He really, _really_ wants to say no. But, well.

“He didn’t have anyone to spend the holidays with,” he forces out, and Sam scoffs.

“Yeah, probably because he _killed_ everyone he knows. _Jesus_ , Dean.”

Dean can feel Sam staring at him, but he refuses to look back.

“Well, I’m not inviting him in. Do it yourself, if you want.”

Something evil inside Dean really wants to say something about pot and kettle, because, after all, _Lucifer_ is having Christmas with them, and that’s on Sam, so there, but then the rational part of his brain remembers this is not actually Sam’s fault, not completely, and so he shuts his mouth and nods.

“Thanks. Can you finish setting the table, then?”

Sam glares at him but he still moves towards the cupboards, so Dean pats him on the arm and goes upstairs to let Crowley in.

So, well, he knows the person now banging on the door is Crowley (he invited the guy himself, after all), but when he actually sees him it all seems so unlikely - it's Christmas and they're at home and nonody has died yet and they're having roast turkey, and here is their guest, the actual king of _Hell_ , in the flesh (or whatever he’s made of - Dean doesn’t really know, and it doesn’t seem polite to ask, not even if Crowley has tried and threatened to kill them both on numerous occasions).

“About bloody time,” Crowley says, forcing three wrapped presents in Dean’s hands and walking in without bothering to wait for an invitation.

“I - wait, are these for _us_? We’re not doing _presents_. We _never_ do presents.”

“Not my fault you were raised by wolves. I _always_ do presents for Christmas.”

“You always do - you’re a _demon_. You _literally_ worship the Antichrist,” says Dean, annoyed, and he was talking to himself, muttering at the door as he pushed it closed, but, yes, Crowley _is_ a demon and can hear him perfectly well from fifteen feet away.

“Rude,” he says, without turning around. “And if you think I worship anyone you don’t know me at all. Which, after all the years we’ve been friends, kind of hurts.”

Friends, right. Dean is shaking his head so hard at that he walks right into Crowley - he’d forgotten about the Devil’s trap on the floor.

“You still have this thing?” asks Crowley, sounding offended. “You still have this thing,” he adds, and Dean bravely resists the impulse to stick out his tongue and walks around the demon instead, stepping out of the Devil’s trap and flipping the switch on the wall which controls the tiles upon which the thing is etched.

When it disappears inside the floor, Crowley is visibly relieved.

“And I brought you presents, and all,” he says, cleaning an invisible speck of dirt from his black suit.

“Yeah, yeah - so we have protection against demons, sue us. Jesus.”

“How is Sam?” asks Crowley, ignoring him, and Dean hears the other questions well enough - _Is Lucifer here? Has he taken over? Are we all about to die?_ \- but he doesn’t know how to answer any of them, so he shrugs.

When they arrive downstairs together, Indy has fallen in a pit full of snakes and Cas (the real one) is sitting down on the couch looking even more dejected than he did before.

“No, it’s not a traditional Christmas movie, _per se_ ,” he says, glancing to his right (there’s no one there) and then back at the screen. “But Dean loves it.”

Dean tenses for a second, wondering how to get Crowley out of the room, like, right _now_ , because Cas knows everything about him and that includes the exact reason he loves these movies so fucking much, but, well, Cas is broken and bitter and lost but he’s not an asshole, and Dean has nothing to worry about.

Also, Crowley _knows_.

Dean has _slept_ with him, for fuck’s sake. If that doesn’t spell _Bisexual man with a questionable choice in partners_ in huge, pink and purple letters right on his forehead, Dean doesn’t know what does. 

“None of your damn business,” Cas snaps at the empty air which is Lucifer, and Crowley looks down at his shoes, because technically that’s his god right there, and snapping at divine entities is just not done.

“Why don’t you,” says Dean vaguely, suddenly feeling like a kid playing house; and then he disappears into the kitchen again (those veggies really need to see the inside of an oven, and he needs to get the hell away from there and breathe). 

It’s another forty minutes before they can all sit down, and in that time, things get even weirder. One of Cas’ creepy ghosts (the dreamy-eyed madman in a hospital gown) has disappeared, but the other one has not; and, to make matters worse, there are all sort of other manifestations of Cas flickering in and out of existence. Sam can’t see them, and Dean can only just perceive them, but they irk him all the same. There’s an armoured knight, and a cardinal in red robes, and a factory worker in blue overalls. They don’t look like Cas at all, and yet they are so clearly Cas Dean’s head is hurting. It’s like living in a fucking house of mirrors.

“Shut up,” says Sam, and he’s talking to Lucifer, but there’s no real fight in his voice. He just sounds tired.

“What now?” Dean asks, the carving knife in mid-air, and Crowley puts his plate down again, looking disappointed.

“Lucifer wants some turkey,” Sam mutters, in a low voice, as if he knows he’s not supposed to do this - remind to everyone, on this sacred, joyous day, that all of this - the table groaning with food, Crowley’s presents under the gigantic tree, Harrison Ford cracking his whip - is actually a distraction from reality.

Reality being, of course, a maniac trying to take over the world and kill them all (again) and Sam being possessed by the evilest thing in the whole universe (again) and Dean completely and utterly unable to tell his best friend how he feels about him (uh).

“Tell Lucifer,” Dean says, smiling sweetly, “that invisible people don’t get to eat. Also evil people,” he adds, as an afterthought, and then almost drops the knife when Lucifer pops into existence at the other end of the table.

“I’m not _evil_. That’s a gross overstatement,” he complains.

“You wanted to destroy the _world_ ,” says Dean, because, so help him, he’s not about to be talked down in the only home he’s ever had; not in front of this turkey he’s spent two hours slaving over.

“Everyone has bad days,” Lucifer says, supremely unconcerned, and then he reaches over and grabs a bowl. “Yams?” he asks Novak, and Novak fucking nods.

So, yes, that’s officially how they’re spending Christmas. Dean shakes his head.

“Come _on_ ,” he says, under his breath, because, apparently, nobody wants to hear it; and then he nods at Crowley to hand his plate over, and carves him out a wing.

“Actually, I wanted - no, that’s perfect,” Crowley amends, but he still looks down at his meat unhappily.

He still hasn’t looked at Lucifer, or acknowledged him in any way, which means (because, yes, Dean can read him that well) that he’s doing his best not to show how scared he actually is. And that is not fair, because it’s thanks to Crowley that Sam survived at all.

Looking absently at Cas (as he does every time he’s not focusing on not doing that), Dean nurses his third bottle of beer as he goes over the events one more time. 

They’d been standing in front of the Cage, the two of them; Dean had tried to get closer to Sam at first, but Lucifer had begged to differ - as Dean moved around the Cage, Lucifer had moved with him, forcing Sam to move as well to keep the distance between them. Which meant Lucifer had always been between Sam and Dean, and Dean could only catch glimpse of his brother - of Sam’s white, determined face; of the uneasy way he looked at the back to Lucifer’s head (never at Dean, because this is the first rule of the hunt: never take you eyes off something that can kill you).

“Just get out of here,” Sam had said, after Lucifer had explained the terms, and Dean had actually taken a step forward despite the unfriendly coldness coming from the archangel, because, fuck it, he was _not_ going to leave Sam inside this thing with - with -

“If I may,” Crowley had said, a bit diffidently, just when Dean had been about ready to try and wring Lucifer’s head off with his bare hands out of sheer irritation, “there is another solution.”

Lucifer had given Crowley his full attention, then, and the demon had seemed to shrink a little.

“Death’s ring has power over you, my Liege, even if you should be inside Sam Winchester’s body.”

“ _My Liege_?” Dean had said, with as much disgust as he could muster, which, admittedly, hadn’t been very much, because Lucifer was so cold and powerful, even within the confines of the Cage, that Dean’s teeth were almost shattering. “And that’s bullshit.”

“Even angels die, Dean,” Crowley had said, softly, and that had been something Dean really had _not_ needed - because he knew that, okay, because he’d seen Cas die one time too fucking many, and right now - right now -

“He’s right, you know,” Lucifer had replied, lounging against the bars.

“It doesn’t matter. I killed Death. The ring is lost.”

“No, it’s not. It passed to you by right,” Lucifer had said, and he’d still been looking at Dean, and now Dean had felt it - how sweet and intoxicating his power was - how easy to be swayed by it, to believe everything he said, to bask in -

But Amara had tried the same thing barely two hours before that, and Dean had been fucking tired to be jerked around.

“Yeah? And why are you being so helpful all of a sudden? What’s in it for you?”

_Your brother_ , Lucifer had said, smiling, only he hadn’t spoken out loud, not exactly. It had been more like - a suggestion, straight to Dean’s mind - his own memories of Sam - Sam laughing, his head thrown back, Sam changing, standing around bare-chested looking like something out of a _Dieux du Stade_ calendar; Sam’s eyes all soft and fond when he looked at Dean - and Dean had shaken his head like a dog coming out of the rain, because what the _fuck_?

_I see it as well_ , the voice had echoed in Dean’s head. _How worthy he is. And he is that way because he was created for me. He is my destiny, and I am his_.

“Stay the fuck out of my head,” Dean had finally managed to force out. “Why is he okay with this? What’s the downside?” he’d asked Crowley, and the demon had looked shifty.

“Sam is not Death. He is human. His control over Lucifer won’t last forever.”

“Great. So it’s a lose-lose. Good thing you’re on our side, man, you come up with the best -”

“Let’s do it,” Sam had said, and it had been weak, a mere whisper, but they’d all heard it.

Dean had rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t I just say it was a stupid plan? And didn’t I tell you, from the beginning, to not do this? Sammy -”

“I _want_ to do it. We can’t defeat the Darkness. He can.”

Lucifer had turned around then, and whatever he’d done - smiled at Sam, or whispered to him, or done some creepy, unnameable thing - Sam had gotten even paler, but he’d said it a third time.

“We need him. Just - just do it.”

“Yeah, slight problem with that. I do not have the bloody ring.”

“You do,” Crowley and Lucifer had said, and Dean had frowned at them.

“Do you trust me?”

This from Crowley, and it had been such a stupid question all the drama had died down for a second as Dean scoffed - a flawless, deeply convincing scoff - a state-of-the-art scoff, in fact, which would have won some kind of prize if it had been done in front of an audience and not in the deepest circle of Hell.

“Was that a _no_? You break my heart, Squirrel.”

Crowley had thought it over for a moment. 

“ _Can_ you trust me?” he’d said in the end, and Dean had heard, a bit faintly, Sam’s warning; but, well, what other choice did they have?

As soon as he’d nodded, Crowley had stepped forward with surprising speed and grace, and he’d tripped him, pushing him down to the floor.

“Hey,” Dean had said, but he’d still hesitated for a split second, unsure of what to do - wondering if he was supposed to fight back - and that moment had been enough for Crowley to sit on top of him and get a thin knife out of nowhere.

“It’ll go easier if you stay still,” he’d said, but as soon as Dean had seen the naked blade, instinct had kicked in - _Enemy, enemy, ENEMY_ , a siren had blared inside his mind - but, of course, it’d been too late to fight back - 

“I said, stay _still_ ,” Crowley had insisted, putting a hand on Dean’s forehead, forcing his head down on the stone floor; and then he’d fucking _stabbed him in the neck_.

The echo of two voices (“Dean!” - “Very clean cut.”) - pain, darkness -

“Easy, now,” Crowley had said, almost soothingly, but Dean had barely heard him - 

“Only a bit longer -”

\- no air, no light, no -

“Dean. Dean, listen to me.”

Slowly, the world had come into focus again - Dean had latched on to Crowley’s voice, to the cool touch of Crowley’s fingers against his face -

“Get it,” Crowley had said again - he’d grabbed Dean’s right hand, forced it in front of his face, and now Dean had seen it, just barely - the ugly ass ring with the black stone in the middle - had he been in any way rational he’d have wondered at the whole thing, but -

Slowly, he’d reached up and pushed the thing off his finger, and then -

“Here,” Crowley had said, pouring something wet and warm on Dean’s neck. “Good _Lord_ , Moose, shut up already. He's _fine_.”

Dean had been on a rollercoaster only once - all he’d learned is that chicks are not very likely to kiss you after having seen you throw up - and that is what it had felt like - a sudden lurch forward and then a push upwards and next he’d been breathing again, sitting up, actually, feeling like nothing had even happened.

“What - the - _fuck_?” he’d said, bringing his right hand up.

His shirt had been wet with blood, but the skin of his neck - pristine, unbroken. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

“You’re human, Dean. The ring will only appear to you when you’re so close to the Veil you _become_ Death.”

Dean had looked at Crowley - the guy had shifted slightly as Dean was moving, but he was still sitting on top of his legs, looking way too smug and a bit - a bit - Dean had suddenly been reminded of that night with the triplets, and the thing had rapidly gone from inappropriate to uncomfortable as hell.

Unable to do anything else, he’d punched Crowley in the face, and the demon had stumbled back.

“Hey,” he’d said, standing up, “I use my last vial of phoenix tears on you, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You never said - _fuck_ -”

But that is the way of demons. And being friends with one is definitely a one step forward, two steps back kind of thing, Dean thinks, as he pushes a cube of roasted potato around his plate. Because, yes, so they’d gotten the ring, and Sam was now wearing it, but its power couldn’t last forever - even now, Lucifer is way too confident - look at the bastard, yapping away at Cas and probably playing footsie with his brother under the table. 

“Look at us,” he says, morosely. “What a sausage fest.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Novak replies, but before it can become a fist fight of any description, Crowley steps in and begins to disparage the food.

“We used to have mutton and dried plums in honey for Christmas,” he says, and it sounds way too much like he’s complaining instead of being grateful to be there at all. 

“Well, I felt like turkey.”

“You literally just _had_ turkey. It was Thanksgiving, like, last week.”

“We didn’t _have_ Thanksgiving. We were too busy being gutted by a family of ghoulpires.”

“What’s a _ghoulpire_?” Crowley asks, fascinated, and Sam says, “Oh God, don’t ask,” and he sounds so normal Dean smiles around his turkey leg.

In fact, he’s so relieved to see his brother smile he loses track of the conversation; for the next few minutes, all he hears are bits and pieces -

“I told Dean they were not real creatures, but -”

“I must say, you look way better in a white suit.”

“- the proper term is _Nachzehrer_ , which means -”

“These jeans are very comfortable, though. Also soft.”

“I’ll bet they are.”

"Stop that, you can't do that!"

“You’re not fun at all.”

“Can it, Moose.”

\- and then it happens again, and this time the thing which blasts into existence right behind Lucifer’s blond head is not transparent and flimsy at all - it’s there only for a few seconds, but it’s so real Dean’s heart stops inside his chest, because this is Cas - this is the first time they met - this is a fucking angel of the Lord, only this time Dean can see his wings, not only the shadows Cas had chosen to show him, but the real things, breathtaking and blindingly white - and Cas looks -

Dean’s eyes move over his windswept hair, his bright blue eyes, and yep, he may be drooling a little. As the figure disappears, he feels Cas’ gaze on him, and when he looks at him he sees a strange expression on Cas’ face - is that - relief? 

“What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve just had sex,” says Crowley, before catching the thunderous look on Dean’s face and backtracking. “Bad sex. With a dog. Inside a blender.”

“I’m sure you speak from experience,” Dean bites out, and then he stands up from the table, walks away.

Later he will come back and have two slices of pie and open Crowley’s present and find out Crowley can be kind of awesome when he puts his mind to it (he’d gotten Dean an LP of _Leftoverture_ signed by all the Kansas members - a proper thing, tiny scribbles saying _To Dean, you rock_ , and everything; for Sam he’d managed to scavenge a potion for dreamless sleep, and that was doubly nice considering Sam had been actively trying to kill him for months; and to Cas he’d given a Light-up Ant Farm Gel Colony, which, okay, Dean would have preferred out of the house, but Cas, of course, had loved it), no doubts about it; later. Right now, though, he really needs to breathe, he needs -

Cas watching him hang the mistletoe, a thoughtful look on his face; Cas stepping closer, close enough to -

And Dean had kissed him, hurriedly, feverishly, because he’d known that as soon as his brain caught up with his heart, he would walk away -

(He’s too messed up. He’s not enough. He will fuck it up, and then - then -)

And then it had happened - and he had walked away. And now -

There is another ghost in the corridor, only this time it’s a little girl, two messy braids flying around her head as she runs. Dean thinks for a second this is Cas again, but then Cas appears behind the kid, and the two figures - light and shadow and mother-of-pearl - laugh together as Cas reaches for the child and lifts her up, swinging her around. 

Dean remains rooted to the spot and stares.

The little girl is howling with silent laughter now, and Cas looks the same but different - Dean is still not used to see him wearing normal clothes - and then, when he turns around, his wings explode on either side of him, healthy and whole and fucking gorgeous, and the child ducks her face in the feathers as they both fade and disappear.

“You never said anything about this,” Dean says accusingly, because he knows Cas, the real one, is standing right behind him.

“I don’t know if it’s my future. It’s only a possible future,” Cas replies softly.

“ _Our_ future. You had no right,” Dean insists, turning around, and as he does so he remembers that he ran away from their first kiss; that he has fucked it all up, bloody again.

“What you can see are the parts of myself I’m most afraid of,” says Cas, quietly. “What I would be without my faith, without my reason.”

Dean waits for him to go on, because, well, this applies to the guy in the hospital gown, and to the frisky hippy who is surely stealing Dean’s liquor by now, but what about _this_? What about the _child_? What about - _them_?

“I am weak,” Cas says, quietly. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect you, to -”

His voice dies down.

“That I’m not enough,” he adds in the end, and Dean’s heart dents and shrinks, because how can Cas, how can he - and then it comes to him, all of it - he finally understands what Cas has been trying to tell him all this time, and why he’s been letting go, and how to fix it.

“God, you’re an idiot,” he says, and okay, so it’s not the most romantic thing he could have said, and yes, he has to make up for it, right now, and so he steps forward, and it doesn’t matter if there’s no mistletoe to explain this away, it doesn’t matter if Sam and Crowley are in the next room right bloody now, having roasted yams with Lucifer, it doesn’t matter if Amara is out there somewhere, creating frogs out of thin air or whatever the fuck she does in her spare time - all of it is gloriously unimportant, because this right here is about the two of them, about something Dean should have done a long time ago, about something Cas really needs to know, and that’s why Dean steps into Cas’ space without any hesitation whatsoever, because he knows he’s welcome, wanted, necessary even, just as Cas is welcome and wanted and necessary in Dean's own life.

“Dean -” starts Cas, a bit uncertainly, but he still raises his hands to Dean’s hips, and Dean kisses his next words right out of his mouth.

He knows without checking that there are no more ghosts around them; that even Novak, with his Indian shirts and his exhilarated smile, is now part of Cas’ soul again, and not a guest to their Christmas table. And this is how it should be, the right order of things: both of them as whole as they can be, because whatever it is they’re missing to be normal or happy or what other people manage to be so cleanly and effortlessly, Dean and Cas can achieve together; because as broken as they are, they fit just right around each other. Because Dean's soul and Cas' Grace are now blooming around them in happy white light and Dean knows in his heart, has always known in his heart, that this is the right thing to do; that he won’t regret it, whatever happens next (possibly, hopefully: eternity with Cas).

**Author's Note:**

> Who holds the devil, let him hold him well,  
> He hardly will be caught a second time. - Goethe
> 
> He says the best way out is always through.  
> And I agree to that, or in so far  
> As that I can see no way out but through -  
> Leastways for me - and then they’ll be convinced. - Robert Frost
> 
> Nothing is free. Everything has to be paid for. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing. For every life, a death. Even your music, of which we have heard so much, that had to be paid for. Your wife was the payment for your music. Hell is now satisfied. - Ted Hughes
> 
> I am that I am. - _Exodus_ , 3:14


End file.
